Lucky thirteen

Yesterday, Thursday, was Day 12. It was also Kiki's last day in Whistler. And, sadly, it was a washout. We awoke to the sound of rain hammering off the roof of the apartment building; at the top of the Whistler gondola we were met by a maelstrom of wet snow and near gale force winds. Reluctantly (but wisely) Kiki elected not to ski and took the gondola back to the village. Steve, Marianne, Cheryl, Simon and I battled through sleet, ice and slush for three hours before calling it a day and heading home to wring out our underwear.

Rather more pleasant was an evening spent in the company of friends old and new. I've dishcovered a fantashtic new djrink. Ish called hot apple cider and comes spiked with rum and a cinnamon stick. After a couple of these at the Amsterdam pub in Whistler Village, we moved on to the Irish pub for dinner before adjourning home to polish off some of our considerable stash of wine. The good stuff doesn't give you a hangover. Honest.

And then, sadly, it was time to bid farewell to Kiki, who was moving on to new adventures in her year-long, round-the-world trip. Her odyssey makes ours look like a trip to the bustop. We parted with plans to stay in touch, and I have high hopes that we'll meet again someday.

As one departed, so another arrived: Marianne's older brother Joe arrived late on Thursday evening, for nine precious days in snowboarding Mecca. He's a Whistler veteran: five visits including one entire season. But as I drifted off to sleep with yet more rain pattering on the window, I couldn't help but feel a sense of foreboding about Day Thirteen.

Which was largely unfounded. High winds meant that most of the top lifts stayed shut, but a welcome layer of fresh powder made the mid-altitude sector of Blackcomb a real treat. And a challenge: within minutes I found myself facedown in a pillow of snow as the others pointed and laughed. We made the Glacier Express runs our own: over and over we braved the tearing winds on the chairlift to carve a different route down the mountain each time. On piste, off piste, fresh tracks in virgin powder or chopping through two-foot tall bumps.

Later, we moved across to the wonderful Seventh Heaven area - where I saw the birds that land on your ski pole! I'm reliably informed that they're called Whiskeyjacks; I thought they frequented Harmony, on Whistler, but perhaps they're to be found anywhere below the treeline. Anyway, they will land on ski poles - but they'd rather land on hands bearing peanuts, as the group of snowboarders in front of us demonstrated.

After two glorious runs in deep powder - demanding of muscles and punishing of mistakes, but utterly thrilling - the lifts were beginning to close, and it was time to put the kettle on. Another day crossed off; tomorrow we'll bid farewell to Simon and Cheryl who have been great company this past week and have, I hope, enjoyed their first winter visit to Whistler.

That's all the blathering from me but hold on, as usual, for a few pictures:

(Marianne, Kiki and Andrew bid for Olympic glory. Dave Murray downhill, Whistler Mountain, 2 February)

(Those are smiles, not grimaces. From left: Cheryl, Simon and Andrew. Glacier Express chairlift in high wind, Blackcomb, 4 February)

(Steve practises his snowboarder pose. Seventh Heaven, Blackcomb, 4 February)

(Joe celebrates not being at work. Seventh Heaven, Blackcomb, 4 February)

(Simon and Cheryl on Seventh Heaven, 4 February. Looks like they're posing in front of a painted-on backdrop, doesn't it?)

(Marianne does ski chic as only Marianne can. Seventh Heaven, 4 February)

(The Day 13 group celebrate still being upright after six hours skiing in powder. Seventh Heaven, 4 February)